Wanted: a baby

The NHS waiting list at our hospital was three years; I was 37 and couldn’t afford to wait. But neither could we afford £3,000. We were lucky. My husband’s mother was desperate for a grandchild and offered to pay.

Until then, I’d thought the mission to conceive had occupied most of my time, but now it turned into a full-time job. Fortunately, I was freelance and could be flexible. I had to be available at all times; a blood test might mean, ‘everything on hold for another two days’ or it could mean, ‘all systems go’. Work, social engagements, all were liable to last-minute cancellations. I exercised my imagination to the limits when creating excuses. Only my closest friends were in on the secret.

The emotional strain was enormous, and it showed on the face of every person in that waiting room

We all avoided eye contact. It was an experience we didn’t want to share. Each of us was locked in our own struggle to be the one to win this particular lottery. Our clinic had an above 20% success rate – which made it a ‘good’ clinic. Against those odds even the most confirmed gamblers would baulk. Yet here we were, a selection of sober, responsible people, pursuing a goal with a high financial and emotional cost, but a very slim chance of success. It’s not rational. But then the urge to hold your own child isn’t rational; it springs from the gut and it tugs and tugs.

My fertilised eggs were implanted, and my husband drove me carefully home, taking the speed bumps with excessive caution. We had 14 days to wait. It was just before Christmas, and we spent a few days in Oxford, imagining the twins we were hatching, planning their names. I felt nauseous – I felt ecstatic! We were confident that we were the winners in that crowded waiting room. I phoned the clinic for the result of the blood test. ‘I’m sorry…’